HEART
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: "She's dying, you machine –" and he cuts himself off, shaking his head. "Sod this. Sod this." ...Little does he know how correct he is. .:. Robo!Sherlock AU. Johnlock pairing.
1. 01: Explanation

**A/N: Because rainbowsaola made a post on Tumblr saying,**

"**I just woke up from a Sherlock dream where Sherlock was actually a robot. His creator saw Sherlock as his son, kind of like Data and Lore's creator from Star Trek. In the dream I was in his house drinking tea with him and talking about Sherlock and John. He obviously loved Sherlock very much. He was also a huge Johnlock shipper and insisted that the two of them were perfect together. I also got the feeling that he was just a little bit insane. There were a bunch of other simpler, smaller robots floating around the house doing various jobs like cleaning and refilling our tea. They looked alot like the robots Mitch from Phineas and Ferb had in 'Meapless in Seattle'. Sherlock was in the background yelling at a few of them and John was trying to get him to shut up. The dream ended as I wondered if John knew and how would this affect their relationship?"**

**And suddenly I just had to write something like it. Although I will refrain from using any 'I, Robot' or 'Terminator' references, I swear, as much as it will pain me to resist. XD**

* * *

01. Explanation.

* * *

"She's _dying, _you _machine_ –" and he cuts himself off, shaking his head. "Sod this. _Sod this_."

Sherlock's eyes linger as John exits the room.

Little does he know how correct he is.

-0-

Sherlock rarely sleeps. He hardly eats. When he does either, it's sleep-mode to rest his harddrive (he wasn't using a metaphor about deleting files from it; that is the blunt truth), and the food is emptied later, because it has no meaning for his body; he only eats to appease John.

Mycroft is also an android. Their father made two. Mycroft is the older, more analytical version. He is precise and efficient and doesn't much care for humans. He was programmed that way. Their father is a lonely widower; he wanted sons. So he crafted them himself.

Perfect, down to the last detail. They look human. They feel mostly human; their false skin is of the highest caliber, and their machinery keeps them feeling warm to the touch, their metal bones makes them feel solid, but not too heavy.

But Sherlock, unlike his brother, is programmed with "H.E.A.R.T."

Human

Emotion

Artificially

Recreated

Technology.

Speaking literally, when he told Moriarty – a human, one of the rare sort who is as intelligent as Sherlock and Mycroft, but unable to handle it, and therefore insane – that he didn't have a heart, and was reliably informed of such, he was speaking the truth. He does not need a pumping organ of flesh to make his circuits run. He has an ionic core, something bright and ice-hot to the touch that resides in his chest plate. But not a heart.

He has H.E.A.R.T., of course, but that is different. They are fake emotions. They are designed, not naturally fabricated. They mimic the chemicals humans naturally possess. So Sherlock often disregards them, his own and the feelings of others. Those become the times, he's noted in pattern, when John says he has done something _not good._

But that doesn't mean Sherlock is devoid of them. He still "feels" them. And when John walks out of the hospital and Sherlock is prepared to meet his doom, he "feels" something. Humans might call it "regret/remorse," or "sorrow," or perhaps even "guilt."

Sherlock doesn't like this emotion. He wishes to eradicate it. But only his creator can do that.

-0-

Being robotic, it is simple to fall from stories up and survive. He merely shuts off his blinking function and already bears no pulse, and asks Molly for a few pints of donated blood to pour into the street below.

Faking his death is easy. Because, in theory, robots can't die.

-0-

"You were… the best man; uh, the most human… human being that I have ever known, and no one can convince me that you told me a lie. So, there."

Sherlock watches John speak to his empty grave. He is meters and meters away, but it is heard perfectly with an extension of his microphone function. He picks up the carry of John's voice as clearly as though John were standing directly beside him.

He smiles at the irony of that statement. He isn't a human being at all; but now, he wonders, if he isn't a bit human anyhow, due to H.E.A.R.T., and John, and how much he wishes he didn't have to put the doctor through this.

-0-

When Sherlock returns, John is shock still for a long time. Sherlock wonders what's wrong with him. He is surprised, and relieved, and terrified, that much is clear, but why isn't he breathing? Why is he swooning?

Sherlock catches John in his arms and registers that the man has fallen unconscious. He takes him, lies him down gently onto the floor, and touches his brow. He can't feel what John's skin is like. He can see the sheen on sweat at his hairline, can see the wrinkles in his forehead, but cannot feel any of it. He wishes he had sensors that could do so. He will have to ask Father about crafting some. It would be nice, to be able to touch and download sensory information.

When the doctor wakes, he moves to jump Sherlock, tackle him, strangle him, all while weeping. The shock has worn off; it's pure adrenaline now. Sherlock smiles and eases John's fingers from his throat. He sits up and John removes himself from Sherlock's legs. He wipes his tears, and Sherlock watches. Waits.

Then: "How are you alive? I saw you fall. I saw the blood, felt your pulse –"

"I think it's time you met my father," Sherlock remarks. It's the only answer he can give that covers all the bases. If he's explained to John, explained to be an android, then perhaps John will get some honest answers about how he survived the suicide cover, and why it had to be this way.

-0-

Sherlock's creator is a bit mad. He knows that. No sane man would build fake humans and think of them as his sons. No sane man would craft robots to do his odds and ends, like his chores and bills and other tasks like making and pouring tea, things he could easily do himself, all so he doesn't have to hire a maid or the like. It's madness, Sherlock is aware, but he cares for his father regardless, in that way all things care for what created them.

When John enters the house, he freezes in place. "Are those… robots?"

"My father is a cyber-genetic engineer. He created the job, much as I created mine. You see, John, he makes machines with 'genes' that dictate what their main purposes and functions are. For example, that one is meant to dust, and only dust. That one is meant to hoover. He will explain it to you over tea," Sherlock relays with as much casualness in his tone as he can muster. He keeps his face schooled, expressionless. He clasps his hands behind his back and walks forward, leading John throughout the house.

The house is big. Mr. Holmes, Senior must have a lot of money. Oh, but of course he does; he makes robots. The funding must come from somewhere – the government, perhaps? Mycroft could have gotten a position in it because of what his father can do, John thinks – and he must make money off of his inventions. It's only logical, John supposes.

They enter the drawing room and take their seats, although Sherlock prefers to stand, barking orders at the small 'bots and batting a few of the flying ones out of his face as they seem to greet him like a pet might.

"Ah, Dr. Watson! How good to finally meet the man who has tamed my son," the man muses as he walks into the room, a 'bot carrying a tea tray behind him. John stands, and the man shakes John's hand. "Come, sit, sit! Let us get to talking. I understand that it's been some years since you've seen my son, and now you want some answers. Well, for starters, let's get you some tea, yes?"

John has a perpetual frown of confusion on his face, but he nods, seats himself, and takes the tea the little robot offers. It is shaped, unlike many of the robots in the house, to be a little butler. An owl-butler. It's metallic wings flap, gears whirring, eyes adorably large saucers, and it bears a little hat and a little waistcoat with tails and a bowtie, and it's clawed feet are clutched to its round, metal body. It's adorable, but strange, and John blinks, forces a smile, and accepts the tea the owl-butler pours for him.

"Cute, isn't he? I've always fancied birds, particularly birds of prey, such as the owl. I made him first to be a pet, one that wouldn't make a mess or do things I otherwise disliked, but then I saw an illustration in a child's book where all the animals were like high-class citizens from the 1800s, and I simply had to make him my little butler," Mr. Holmes says with a chuckle. He takes sip of his tea. "Mm. Now then. I suppose the first order of business would be to tell you that I made Sherlock."

"Pardon?" John says, coughing into his tea. He sets it down in its saucer and blinks at the older gentleman. "You don't mean…"

"Oh yes, he's an android. A perfect human replica. Artificial intelligence, just like half a dozen science-fiction films out there. He can think for himself, work out puzzles, has eyes that work better than the most high-tech binoculars, and can pick up sounds from 2.3 kilometers away. He can run without getting tired – although, to appear human, I gave him a heavy-breathing function for after a run, so not to make people wonder – and he doesn't need to sleep or eat. He recharges himself with kinetic energy – so movement, really, is what keeps him going – and Sleep Mode. And I enabled him, unlike his brother, with the H.E.A.R.T. program," the man says proudly, taking a few more dainty sips of tea.

John stares. "You're joking. This is a joke, right? Something you thought I'd believe to make it easier to process that my best friend didn't actually die, somehow lived? And showing me all these little robots running around, that's mean to help prove it, right? But that can't be right! It's impossible!"

"I assure that it is not, John," Sherlock says quietly. He makes an open gesture. "Mycroft is the same, although he lacks the H.E.A.R.T. program. He functions more efficiently than I do without it. But he and I are one and the same. Brothers, so to speak, because of who made us and how we were built, so similarly 'genetic' on the inside," and he sounds irritated by that. He clears his gears in his throat and straightens his posture. "It is the truth, John. I will show you if you like."

John is reeling. He leans back in his chair and tries not to gape like a fish out of water. He swallows. "Show me, then. Yeah. I need to see it to believe it."

"Very well," Sherlock says with a slight sigh.

"Oh, wonderful!" cheers Mr. Holmes, setting aside his teacup and leaping to his feet. He giddily waltzes over to his "son" and turns him around, shedding his clothes and revealing what looks like any natural-born man's lithe body, nipples and muscles and skin and all. But then, he goes to under Sherlock's hairline and presses his pinky finger into a spot just behind Sherlock's ear. And then there is a noise, like escaped steam, and he gently tuges back skin.

To reveal shiny metal bone and elastic muscle. Rubber and wires and oh my God.

John stands and does gape. He walks closer and sees it: the glow of an impossible would-be brain, a metal skull, wires upon wires going down into Sherlock's neck, all organized, clean tubes, color-coded with the same rubbery wax of any wire John has seen in an electrical box.

"I'll be damned," John whispers. "It's true."

"But so lifelike, isn't he? Even down to his weight. I made sure to use the strongest, lightest metals I could buy. He feels, were you to carry him, like flesh and bone. His skin is made to feel as soft and real as yours or mine, and his hair is, in fact, a wig made from someone's actual hair. But he is completely inauthentic. Nothing about his innards are human. Brilliant, isn't it?" Mr. Holmes glows with pride, doing back up Sherlock's skin until he appears normal again.

"More brilliant than anything I have ever seen. How could someone make this, and so well? It's… it's mind-blowing," John murmurs. He feels as though he might faint. This is a bit too much to take. The only time he has felt this overwhelmed was when Sherlock appeared before him not a week ago. And that makes for bad news for him, because having this many scares in one week can't be healthy. He'll wind up having a premature stroke.

"Oh, thank you," Mr. Holmes says with a smile that John can't place as anything other than sincere, although that word doesn't quite fully describe it, not the way it seems to radiate and make the man seem so much younger in John's eyes.

The older gentleman sits down and resumes his tea, and, not knowing what else to do (and trying to keep himself from staring at Sherlock now that he has this new discovery in mind), joins him. They drink their tea mostly in silence, while Sherlock pivots and goes off on a few of the lesser robots and shouts at them to quit crowding him, and do their work, and for-God's-sake-I-am-not-your-mommy-so-stop-looking-at-me-like-lost-chicks.

"Sherlock, quit yelling at them!" the ex-army doctor hollers, half tossing the words over his shoulder. "They don't know any better, I don't think!"

Mr. Holmes chuckles and sets down his tea, his owl refilling it. "So, John, tell me something."

"What would you like to know?" John supplies as his answer as he sets aside his tea and waves off the owl when it goes to refill it. John's trying to work through this, process it, and he would much rather answer a question or two and ask one, because he has way too many, and somehow, too little to mention.

"Disregarding what you know about Sherlock now, how did you feel about him before?" Mr. Holmes wants to know. He is suddenly dead serious. "And I want the God's honest truth."

John pinks in the face. He wills it away with a rubbing over his face with one hand. He sighs loudly. "Well, I always thought he was a bit of a dick. He didn't care about anyone but himself, really, and he was rude and untidy and –" He huffs in defeat. He runs a hand through his hair. "And he was brilliant and oddly attractive and captivating and dangerous and wonderful."

Mr. Holmes smiles. "You see, that's what I wanted to hear," he says. And he knows Sherlock is listening in, but he doesn't sugarcoat what he says next. "And this is why I know you're the perfect person for my son."

John blinks. He raises his head and stares at the man. "Do you mean –"

"Yes, perfect in ever sense of the word," the inventive engineer seems to go on. "The perfect colleague, the perfect flatmate, the perfect friend, the perfect lover to make Sherlock's H.E.A.R.T. a reality. You are precisely the right sort of person for all of those things. You care about him, you take care of him, and he cares for you in return. It's the perfect match. I couldn't have built you better myself, I don't think," he says, amused. He leans forward and pats John's knee. "Does that bother you? That you're the perfect fit for a robot?"

John sputters. "I, uh, I'm not – that is, I don't think – I mean, ehm…" He shakes his head and laughs nervously, sliding back in his seat to rest against the back of the chair. "Wow. How is that possible though? I'm not anyone special, and – and, God, you don't mean for he and I to be…? Because I don't even know if you made him for – uh –"

"Oh, no, nothing physical, my boy! He doesn't even have private parts. The shape of a rear for sitting and walking, yes, but essentially a eunuch. Or a doll. There's nothing there, I should say, and I made him asexual for that reason, to keep others from thinking they could have that with him, to keep others from trying to have that with him." He shakes his head, "I don't mean for you to have sexual relations with him! I only meant the tenderness, John. The affection, the love, the care. He needs that. And I was hoping you could give as much to him," Mr. Holmes explains hastily, trying not to smile. It is a bit funny, though. Just a bit. He bites his cheek to keep from laughing at how embarrassed the poor blond man looks now.

Well, this explains the whole exchange between Mycroft and Sherlock concerning Irene Adler; sex doesn't alarm Sherlock because it is mere information about human interaction to him, and he wouldn't know from experience because he is incapable of having it. Makes sense.

Doesn't make John feel any less foolish, however.

John clears his throat. "Um, so. You just want me to… what? Stay his friend? Not hide my feelings?"

"Precisely. Tell him, on your own terms, how you feel about him. And I pray it works, because he should be able to feel the same. I need to know if he does, because he's called himself a sociopath in the past, thinking his emotions weren't real and therefore invalid and impossible, but that isn't true. He's capable of love. He just needs the right person to share it with, and I think you are said person," Mr. Holmes urges quietly. He smiles warmly and stands. "Now then, I think it's about time I left the pair of you to yourselves. Good evening, Dr. Watson."

"Goodbye, sir," John half-mumbles as he gives a shaky smile and joins hands with the man.

Then Sherlock enters the room, John's coat in hand, and the pair of them leave the home and head for their own via cab, like always. And, like they often do, the hold a comfortable silence between them the entire way back to Baker Street.


	2. 02: Adaptation

**A/N: Ever heard the song 'A New Friend' by I Hate This Place? No? Oh, well, you should. If you like techno-like music like Owl City.**

**I think this was meant to be serious, but it lost some of its mojo along the way. Oops. XD**

* * *

02. Adaptation.

* * *

Sherlock knows what is supposed to transpire. His father said as much, directly to John, and John must know that Sherlock had been listening, correct?

So why, then, does it appear as though John isn't going to follow through?

Sherlock paces the flat, hands behind his back, and keeps his machinery churning, whirring, humming. He stews in silence, a furrow in his brow, and his eyes steely and unblinking.

This is the state John finds in him hours later, after returning from everyday errands.

"Sherlock?" he says, and the android snaps into attention, stilling his movement and connecting gazes with John. "Are you okay?"

"No." He hesitates, mind freezing. He jerks stiffly and squares his shoulders. "Yes, I am. Never mind."

"You seem on-edge," John addresses while he puts away groceries. Leaving the non-refrigerated food to sit on the counter, he folds his arms over his chest and leans his hip against the table. "This has to do with our visit to your father the other day, doesn't it?"

"Yes. – No!" Sherlock corrects, hating that sometimes his program to tell the truth slips out when it shouldn't. It works well enough while he's "acting," putting on a façade for others to gain information from them, but not very well when he isn't on a case, is alone with people he knows well. Sometimes it makes him blunt, rude. Other times, like this instance, it makes him vulnerable.

John offers a small smile. "It's all right if it does. You can tell me."

Sherlock sags, defeated. He slumps down into his armchair and closes his eyes, tilting his head back. "Just tell me if it was true. Those things you said to describe me to my father. Did you mean them? With all your heart, as the saying goes?"

John could laugh. He doesn't. He enters the living room and kneels beside Sherlock's chair. "Yes, God help me, but I did."

"My brother told me that caring is not an advantage. I do not have the upper hand between he and I simply because I can feel something akin to emotion, and he cannot. But then, I have a friend, and he only has co-workers. I think that counts for something, in human logic," Sherlock murmurs. He sits up again, eyes opening, and steeples his fingers. He steals a glance at John. "I have an adaptation feature, but I'm not sure I can adapt to this. To this knowledge, to how our relationship might be altered."

John nods curtly. He stands. "If you feel that way, you can always delete it."

Sherlock jolts as if electrocuted, short-circuited. "You can't mean that. Surely that will affect you poorly?"

The doctor shrugs is off and his eyes look down and away. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"John –" Sherlock tries, frowning, his eyes searching John's entire body language for something recognizable. He blinks, for once baffled by which meaning he should be taking from this. Whether or not John is being sincere, wanting Sherlock to delete it, or solely saying it in comfort, wishing that Sherlock will protest. It's a toss-up between the two. John's face and body belie nothing as he returns his gaze to Sherlock and pins him there.

Sometimes, Sherlock can't help but feel a little proud of John for the way he confuses the cleverest detective in existence.

"All right, if that is what you think I should do in solution," Sherlock responds at length. He shuts his eyes, locates the file of the conversation he overheard, and deletes it. There. Gone. He can't even recall what it was he deleted; an audio file, but nothing specific. Opening his eyes again, it's as though Sherlock reboots. He looks to John and sees a worried expression on his face. "You should make yourself some tea, John. It might help calm you, whatever it is that ails you."

John sighs deeply and heavily, and Sherlock can almost feel the weight of that sigh on his own chest. John says, "Yes, that's a great idea. I'll make some tea." And he turns and busies himself in the kitchen for a while.

Sherlock rings Lestrade. He's bored. He could use a case, and he doesn't wish to wait for one to drop into his lap. Distantly, he hears the water simmering in the kettle.

-0-

"That's odd," Sherlock frowns as he looks over the evidence for a fifteenth time. "John, doesn't this seem odd to you? No matter how many times I read it over, something seems off, medically speaking, and –"

Silence.

Lestrade gave him a cold case from about a year ago, and Sherlock nearly has it. He need s second opinion from John.

But John isn't anywhere in the flat. He can't hear him at all.

He quickly rewinds his memory to earlier in the day. Ah, there: this afternoon, John mentioned in passing that he was going out with a friend to lunch.

Sherlock glances at the clock. It's after eight p.m. That isn't right; lunch ended hours upon hours ago. John should be home. Even if he went out with someone for a drink, he would have said something. Texted, or called, or stopped by. But in all his memory, even when he checks his phone, Sherlock finds no trace of John having done so.

He tenses all over, his circuits lighting up. Danger. Something tells him that there is danger.

He whirls around just as he hears a whoosh of wind. A brick crashes through one of the windows – Mrs. Hudson is going tot hate that – and there is a note attached to it.

Sherlock runs to the window and yanks it upright, peers out of it, trying to catch a glimpse of who might have thrown it. His eyes shift to night-vision, then infa-red, then heat-seeking. There is a retreating figure, but he is too vague and far to zoom in on properly.

Dammit.

Growling, Sherlock clenches his teeth and slams the window shut, making more pieces of broken glass plummet to shatter on the floor. It crunches under his feet and he storms for the note, snatching it up and heading out the door.

-0-

John, it seems, has somewhat of a princess complex.

He is a decent fighter when he has his gun, but he was trained mainly as a doctor, not a combat specialist. And no human being can resist the affects of chloroform, no matter how hard they try, because every human needs to breathe in at some point.

And then, of course, this means John was kidnapped, criminals trying to lure in the great Sherlock Holmes and off him to make themselves famous, but it never truly works, because Sherlock is Sherlock, and Sherlock isn't human, and that gives him the upper hand. All those times John saved his life were probably pointless, but he likes to think Sherlock appreciates the gesture.

When Sherlock was given a ransom for John – "Your life for his, Mr. Holmes, and he must write about it to give us publicity. If neither happens, then we kill the doctor." – it's upsetting. Highly upsetting, in fact. Sherlock has never before felt such outrage. He storms out of the flat immediately and heads for the rendezvous point ahead of schedule.

He doesn't bother to phone Lestrade. He's taking matters into his own hands. He has a case, but he's nearly figured it out, and it doesn't matter right now, not when John's life is at stake.

These criminals are completely idiotic. They gave a location and time far too in advance, and this allows Sherlock to burst right in their hideout. They scramble, but Sherlock merely grins and proceeds to beat them unconscious.

"John? John!" Sherlock calls out loudly after the thugs are left groaning on the floor. They don't deserve fame. They are entirely incompetent as criminals and hardly deserve a slot in prison because they are such a waste of space and matter. They had delusions of grandeur, thinking they could kidnap John, force their numbers on him and a ransom for him, and be seen as these fantastic masterminds. What a joke.

Sherlock scoffs with disgust at the men on the floor and looks wildly around, x-raying the floor and walls and ceiling. But there are no bones to be found. John isn't here.

Sherlock stoops to one of the men and hoists him up by his shirt collar with one hand. "Where is he? Answer me, human! Where is my doctor?"

The small spits blood and laughs. _Laughs. _His smile is bloody and his teeth knocked in, and his eye is swollen and bruised, but still he laughs. "Did you really think we were stupid enough to keep him here? We wanted you here so we could kill you without you getting to him. And now I'm not telling you where he is. And our boss will see that we aren't showing up with your head in tow, and he'll kill 'im. Tough luck, mate." And he laughs more, choking a bit on his own blood.

Sherlock drops him to the floor, not fazed in the least by the crunch made by the man's leg breaking as he lands wrong.

Not so dumb, after all. No matter; Sherlock will find John. There are only so many places to look.

He starts by gathering what he can from the men's shoes, to see where they've been. He will have to make q quick analysis of it. Molly. Molly can help.

He whisks away, easy as that, and heads for Bart's.

-0-

An hour later, just before the meant rendezvous time, Sherlock has it. The right corner of London, the right basement. He gets a cab and races there.

-0-

John fades in and out of consciousness. Bollocks, how did he get himself in this situation? He was jumped by about four or five men, he remembers, and he didn't have his gun on him. Shit.

He feels ropes around his wrists, cutting into his skin, rubbing it raw. Around his legs, too, in two places. And there is a cloth gag in his mouth. Fucking brilliant. Where the hell is Sherlock? He should be able to find John, right?

…Right?

-0-

Two men with concussions and broken ribs, one with a busted lip and the other with shattered knuckles.

The "boss" is someone Sherlock recognizes. A mass murderer from a few years back. Parole? Or did he escape? Sherlock didn't bother to keep a record of him. He's someone from Sherlock's life before John came into it.

"I hard you got yourself a buddy, and I thought, why not take him away from you, like you made me lose my wife?" the "boss" says, and Sherlock refrains from rolling his eyes. It's the same old spiel, over and over again. Nothing changes.

"Within about five point three seconds, you will be on the floor bleeding." Sherlock cuts to the chase. He doesn't have time for this. "So before you are rendered unable to speak, I suggest you tell me where John is."

"If you take a step closer, I'll press this button," the man replies darkly, but his fingers are shaking. It's a button on his phone. "This will send a text for the man I have with your boyfriend to shoot him in the head. And you don't want that, do you?"

Sherlock twitches at the word 'boyfriend.' It sparks something in him, H.E.. interface kicking in. He scowls and, lightning fast – too quick for the human eyes to register in time to react – he whips out John's gun and shoots the phone out of the man's hand (blasting off a finger or two in the process. Whoops).

The man screams and drops to the floor, bleeding. Just as Sherlock promised.

"Now then," the consulting detective warns as he crouches down beside the criminal, "Where is John? In this basement, or one a few blocks or buildings over?" After all, his eyes can't x-ray through cement.

-0-

"Sherlock, thank God," John says breathlessly as Sherlock removes the gag first before going about sawing off the ropes from John's body. "What took you so long?"

Sherlock smiles. "Minor setback. Are you okay?" And he looks up then, and a passing thought crosses his metal mind: touch John's face. He doesn't.

"Fine, I'm fine," John giggles with relief. He takes Sherlock's hand and the taller man hauls him to his feet. He dusts himself off and smiles at Sherlock. "Do we need to call an ambulance for the bad guys?"

"Two. There are two different locations where I have left this gang bleeding out," Sherlock admits matter-of-factly. He touches John's shoulder, looks into his eyes. He broke a blood vessel in one, most likely from when he passed out – he smells of chloroform; Sherlock's sensors in his nose detects it – and it's made his eye blood red around one side of his iris. Behind them, the man wit the gun that was meant to kill John lies dead on the floor. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, yes!" John says, and he's trembling, but not with shock or fear; it's adrenaline. "I'm only sad I didn't get to fight them with you! Never mention this again, yeah? Because I feel like a shitty excuse for a man, unable to fight off a few thugs while coming home in broad daylight…"

"How did they manage that, by the way?" Sherlock questions as he leads John out of the building.

"Alleyway. Van. Bad driving, I imagine," John snorts. "And outnumbering me, of course. With a damn sleep-rag to my nose, too." He sighs and shakes his head at himself. "Remind me to do the buddy-system next time. Apparently, even a grown man and ex-soldier can't be safe in London anymore."

Sherlock chuckles at that, grinning down at the blond beside him. He feels something rush through his wires beneath his skin. He licks his lips to prepare to speak. "John?"

"Yes?" the doctor replies as he turns his eyes to the detective, eyebrows quirked in silent question.

Sherlock blinks. He can't remember something. Did he delete it? Was it, in fact, important? He sighs. "Never mind." He keeps walking, looking ahead.

John feels as though he should say something, but he doesn't know where to begin.


	3. 03: Evaluation

**A/N: I feel like I'm writing a Chobits parody or something. Fuck, I love that anime. Might too watch it for a third time; I'm glad it's on Netflix.**

* * *

03. Evaluation.

* * *

On his own terms. On his own terms, Mr. Holmes said.

Ha, what an idea. Now he really did have to say or show it on his own terms, because Sherlock deleted his memory. He deleted the entire conversation John knows he probably heard the two men had concerning him.

That makes this difficult.

Sherlock just saved his life, came to his rescue, and John can't even say, 'Thank you, Sherlock' let alone, 'God, I just love you, Sherlock,' like he wants to. And is it weird? It is strange, loving a machine, isn't it? Plenty of people love their phones, their laptops, their appliances that keep their daily lives running.

But Sherlock isn't like those things. He has thoughts, feelings. They are programmed to run a certain way, that much is true, but other than that, he is, essentially, human. Part of him is. Not physically, but – but it's there. His humanity is there. And John fell in love with that. With his personality, with his cleverness, with his humanity. He loves Sherlock's "heart," in a manner of speaking.

So it can't be that hard, can it? To just… come out and say it, to get is off his chest and to benefit Sherlock, much like Mr. Holmes implied.

"_Right_," John sighs to himself.

-0-

Since his near-death experience (but that isn't new), Sherlock invades John's personal space a lot more than he has previously. In fact, John thinks his personal bubble has diminished to near to nothing in the past week. He was gone for two days of it, but after he came home, he hasn't been quite the same.

Sherlock, even now, is huddled up close to John's side, knees drawn up to his chest, fingers idly fiddling with the loose threads on the bottom of John's jumper.

John sighs, mutes the telly, and sets aside the remote. "All right, Sherlock, what is it?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock puzzles innocently enough. "I'm not distracting you, am I? The telly is rubbish anyway. I will never understand the entertainment humans gain from it. Knowledge, like the news, is one thing. But that are you even _watching_?"

"Never mind that, you dolt," John says with a frown, "I want to know what you're doing, being so absurdly close to me lately, and touching me in any small way you can. I'm not going to disappear, you know."

"Oh, I know that," Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. "You can't up and vanish. That is scientifically impossible."

"Some might argue your existence is the same," John replies. "Being a walking, talking, thinking android and all. Most people think that sort of technology only exists in graphic novels and films, not to be created until at least another fifty years or more."

"Touché," Sherlock permits. He ceases his idle fingering of John's threads and extends his hands before him. "I asked my father for a favor, and he finally delivered. He said he'd been working on it for a while, but finally was able to construct it for my model. For Mycroft's, too, but he declined, saying he had no use for it."

"For what? Is there something new in your hands, like a built-in handgun or something?" John muses, thinking mostly of Inspector Gadget, and half the cyborgs he's seen portrayed in other things. But then, cyborgs are different; they, at least, still have human body parts in them.

"Nothing violent," Sherlock replies with a smile. He turns and touches a hand to John's face. "I can feel that. Your exact body temperature was always data-recordable, like a dead body's for my work, but now I can sense it. I can feel the warmth. And the texture of your skin. It's been made translatable through tiny sensors in my hands and various other major points of sensation that feed information to my 'brain.' Isn't it remarkable?"

John is dumbstruck for a second, but he's soon laughing. "So that's why you've been especially touchy-feely the past few days! You were trying out your new feature. Is that why, too, you've been picking up random things and examining them even though you've had them for ages?"

"Yes," Sherlock says with a shrug. "Wasn't it obvious?"

John shakes his head, smiling. "Not to me. But now that I know, it doesn't bother me."

"May I touch your hair, then? I want to know if it differs from my own."

"All hair does, so go ahead." John's amused. He leaves the telly muted and shifts to face Sherlock.

The detective leans in and brings a hand up to ruffle John's hair slowly, fingers curling to touch scalp. He pinches and rubs a few strands between his fingers and feels the texture difference between the graying blond hairs and the more golden ones. A smile creeps onto his face without his realizing it, and he feels oddly content.

John doesn't so much as blink when Sherlock's other hands joins the first, running down through John's hair to touch his face, his throat, the contrast between clothing and bare skin.

Sherlock hums, clearly interested, and seems to be calculating and evaluating each sensation in his head. John chuckles soundlessly, shoulders bobbing. Sherlock cocks a brow. "What?"

"Nothing. Just you. You're like a baby finally escaped from the crib, eager to touch everything it can because it's curious," John remarks.

Sherlock's cheeks puff up. "I am not at all like a human baby," he protests, but even so, his face falls into a marveled expression as he rolls up John's sleeves and feels the hairs on his arm, the wrinkle of the crook of his elbow, the tendons in his hand. Then, he blinks, and his eyes flash with a glitter of light, like pixels flying across a digital sky, and something seems to activate within him.

"Sherlock?" John asks, Sherlock's hands locked like iron on John's wrist and arm, but it doesn't hurt. Sherlock isn't squeezing.

"Pardon me, John, but –" and he severs his words to look into John's eyes, then lean forward and press a kiss to John's lips, perfectly aligned, like a cog fitting where it was crafted to. "I love you," he announces as plainly as he might say, 'I like cats' or 'The weather is beautiful today.' As if it's a fact.

John isn't sure how to take it. And he is even less sure how it came to pass that Sherlock said it before he did. He takes it in stride, smiling slowly, cupping Sherlock's face. He decides to reply, because it's the truth, regardless of whether or not Sherlock's is a running program or also true. "I love you, too," he says, and he gingerly pecks Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John then, leaning into him, the sofa creaking slightly from the amount of weight shifted so suddenly to one side. He doesn't say a word. He feels a little heavier than before. But John holds him steady, keeps them both from falling off the side of the sofa.

-0-

"You've done it, my lad, you've done it! I received the wireless transmission yesterday that the full potential of the H.E.A.R.T. program was accessed! I knew you could do it. Thank you. He'll be more considerate, now. More human. At least for you. Not anyone else, mind, but at least you. It's wonderful," Mr. Holmes rings John's mobile phone the following day.

John hardly has time to say much before the man hangs up again, leaving John with a stupid grin on his face.

-0-

It's not very different. Sherlock is a little more affectionate, John is in return, but other than that, they are the same friends as always; there is just more love there. More care. More than there ever was. And Sherlock isn't intimidated by it, rolls with it like he would the ocean waves.


End file.
